Inheritance of ash

day two

The room waited for her again.

Same soft light. Same dust hanging suspended. Same piano, patient and expectant.

Vicky knew the steps without looking. Her feet carried her forward, her hands skimmed the polished wood, and she sat.

But she didn't play.

Not this time.

She folded her arms instead, jaw set, staring at the keys as if daring them to sing without her.

Silence stretched. Almost convincing.

Then—

"You're stubborn."

Loki's voice curled through the stillness like it always did, a ribbon of sound. Soft. Careful. Too careful.

She didn't look up. Didn't give him the satisfaction.

"And you're ignoring me."

Vicky exhaled through her nose. Sharp. Controlled. Still not looking.

"You can do that if you wish." His tone held no anger. Only patience. "But it won't change anything."

Her fists tightened over her arms.

Finally, she bit out: "Why are you here?"

A pause.

"I always am."

That made her snap her gaze sideways. She could see him clearly. His eyes, like hers. But this time they held no cruelty.

She hated them anyway.

"No, I mean here," she spat. "Wherever the hell you actually are. Not in my head. Not in my nightmares. Where are you?"

He tilted his head, unreadable. "Does it matter?"

"Yes!" The word cracked out of her like a whip. "You left me. You keep leaving me. And then you just—just crawl back into my head whenever you feel like it, like you never went anywhere at all. I want to know why."

He didn't flinch. Didn't lash back. He only breathed a low sound, almost regret. "Because I cannot stay. Not the way you want."

She nearly choked on a bitter laugh. "Don't talk to me like I asked for this."

His voice softened further, unbearably gentle. "You did. Not with words. But you did."

That made her slam her palms on the keys, a discordant smash of notes. "Stop it. Stop being soft. You weren't soft before. You—" Her throat closed, but she forced it out anyway. "You made me kill. You made me hurt. I saw it. I felt it."

This time, he moved closer, a shimmer by her shoulder. His voice was lower. "No. Those weren't mine."

She turned, incredulous, spitting fire. "Don't lie to me."

"I'm not." A beat. "The good ones—the ones with stillness, with music, with care—those were mine. The others..." His words trailed, heavy. "The others were yours. Fears twisted into knives. Imagination painting you a monster. I did not put them there."

Her breath hitched. Her fury flattened into silence.

She looked back at the piano, blinking fast, her voice coming smaller: "So what's real, then?"

He answered without hesitation. "This. The playing. The remembering. The presence."

Her chest tightened. She could feel herself trembling. "Then tell me where you are."

"Little star—"

"Tell me!"

His pause was longer this time. And when he spoke, it was softer still. Almost like an apology. "I cannot."